


Living with Goldfish

by JackOlantern



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21564646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOlantern/pseuds/JackOlantern
Summary: How I can imagine any one of us meeting the great Mycroft Holmes...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45





	Living with Goldfish

You look blue today. I don’t know how or why- I just know somehow. Perhaps it is the way you are relying on the support of that umbrella of yours more than usual. Perhaps it is the fact that your order this morning did not include your usual choice of pastry as it has for the past two years (Premium Earl Grey with a splash of skimmed milk, and a croissant, please). Or maybe because you have been staring forlornly at the wet London streets just out front the café the last ten minutes, your usual cigarette still unlit between your fingers.

‘Dave,’ I call to my manager, ‘Back in a tic!’

The jingle of the bell on the door carries out onto the street, yet you don’t flinch- you don’t seem to have even registered the sound. Business is slow this early in the morning. It is just before dawn, and the winter sun is reluctantly beginning to peek out from behind the wall of dark cloud.

Suddenly I am nervous. It is very un-British indeed to not mind your own business. Do two years’ worth of ‘good morning’, ‘mind the cup, its hot’, and ‘thank you very much, see you tomorrow’ warrant an inquiry into a your well-being?

I suppose so. Mind made up, I reach into my pocket and hold out an ‘I <3 LONDON’ lighter in front of me. Ghastly thing. 'Need a light?’

He stares at me. Then at the lighter. Then at me again.

‘Please,’ he says, after what feels like an eternity. He leans in over my hand, and I am suddenly starkly aware of your height. And how the glow of the streetlamps reflects off your auburn hair. It looks soft, with the slightest touch of grey around the temples. Stress will do that to you, says Dave, how premature greying starts around the temples or something like that.

The flame flickers, he inhales, and the air is filled with soft tendrils of cigarette smoke drifting skywards.

‘Thank you,’ he says, and his gaze catches mine, grey as the morning sky today. Strange how little details like eye-colour seem to so easily slip from one's memory… then again, I doubt he would have picked up on mine either. His are lovely though, in their own melancholy way.

He smokes in silence, which seems to only heighten my nerves. I should say something to lighten the mood, something non-committal and normal...

‘I really hope it snows soon, like they said on the telly this morning.’

His gaze doesn’t drop, he doesn't answer immediately, and he doesn't smile (he never does). ‘Oh yes, the weather… our cultural foible. At any moment in this country, at least a third of the population is either talking about the weather, has already done so or is about to do so.’

Not the answer I expected- the surprise must be visible on my face.

‘Simple statistics, Ms. Fisher,’ he adds in a bored voice, blowing a final puff of smoke into the air before blotting out his cigarette.

I take that as my cue to return inside. Posh bastard. As I step over the threshold however, I turn round again in spite of myself.

‘I just…’ w _anted to know if you’re alright?_ Why? Because your order was different than usual? Because I think you look tired? ‘I know it’s none of my business, but I just thought I’d ask anyway...’

It has suddenly become hard to breathe. I feel as if I shouldn’t be addressing you so casually, all the others call you ‘sir’ and don’t quite look you in the eye. I suppose that’s the level of deference that people show towards men who are always dressed impeccably in three-piece suits. Who have their own private chauffer. Driving a Bentley. ‘I wanted to ask if everything is alright.’

He's staring at me again with that cold, grey stare, only ever mildly interested. ‘Why?’ He drawls the question distrustfully. _Why would I not be_ is what I'm sure you wanted to ask instead.

I feel myself shrug apologetically. ‘The pastry,’ I say, as if that explains everything.

He’s staring directly at me now, trying to read, trying to understand what I mean, I know he is. In all fairness, it is a strange statement. Or it would be, were it not for the fact that for two years, _two years_ without fail, he has never changed his order. I had it ready for him too, wrapped warm and buttery in a crisp white napkin behind the bar. It’s still sitting there now.

‘Do you often make a habit of inquiring into strangers’s wellbeings based on their breakfast choices?’

I feel my face heat up, of course I don’t! I do though when they look the way you looked today. Anybody with a caring bone in their body would, I think. And what do you mean by strangers? ‘I can’t remember a day in the last two years that I haven’t seen you come in and sit at that exact table,’ I point through the window to the booth in which you usually recline, reading the morning papers, ‘finishing the same breakfast you have every day before leaving at exactly half five.’

He only looks mildly surprised. All the emotions you show, you show mildly, don’t you? I can’t really imagine that aristocratic nose wrinkled in pure mirth, or your lips stretched into a smile so wide that it actually reaches your eyes. Or heart-felt tears running down those high-set cheekbones.

‘How astute,’ he says, ‘you imply that we are not strangers, yet we have not even been properly introduced.’

I suppose we can remedy that. My hand is extended between us again before I can think about it twice. I blame the cold for its slight tremor.

‘Lorelai. Lorelai Fisher.’

He nods, a small, knowing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Like he is already familiar with this tidbit of personal information already. Yes, he _did_ use my surname earlier, come to think of it. Have I mentioned it before? He deftly removes the leather glove from his right hand before clasping it in mine. ‘Mycroft Holmes.'

**Author's Note:**

> I reeeeally could not think of a nice name for the narrator, but Gilmore Girls was on in the background and I thought that "Lorelai and Mycroft" would sound lovely together...


End file.
